


he said baby, why do we love each other

by mwildsides



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: EVERYONE IS ALIVE AND HAPPY, F/M, Marriage, probably fix it, pure sappy emotional indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 20:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18556975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: Jaime and Brienne are married in Winterfell.





	he said baby, why do we love each other

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a really long time ago, and so things aren’t going to line up canonically but I just wanted this to be a happy future fic. And after episode three I’m so emotional I can’t stand it and wanted to post this before the shit hits the fan. enjoy.

“Here I thought you’d see you married in trousers and a jerkin,” Sansa muses as she tugs at the laces of the bodice, a cream colored thing with thick boning, “fine trousers and jerkin, of course, but trousers and a jerkin none the less.” 

“Liar,” Brienne purses her lips in a furtive smile, looking at Sansa behind her in the hazy mirror, “you never thought you’d see me married at all.” 

They both laugh at that, warm and happy and easy.

Sansa moves to the bed, where a dress is laid out, a veritable sea of fabric compared to what she is used to. It’s much like a robin’s egg, pale blue, with the sun and moons of house Tarth embroidered into the fine silk with equally lovely, shimmering thread, and an attention to detail unlike anything Brienne had ever seen. Save for perhaps on Margaery, her dresses were always spectacular--not that Brienne was an expert on the subject, or even a novice. There were even small, delicate gems sewn into the fabric to mimic stars. 

“She doesn’t have to wear a dress, it doesn’t always have to be ladies and princes and finery,” Arya grouses from where she’s leaned up against the window sill, arms crossed over her chest as she looked sulkily over the scene. Even though she was a woman now herself, she was still little to Brienne, still a girl who was upset the only other lady knight she had met decided to get married in a dress. 

Sansa glares at her sister, her bodyguard, her assassin, and rolls her eyes. “It was her choice - “

“And she is right here,” Brienne interrupted, raising her eyebrows at one girl then the other like a scolding septa, but luckily it was the end to that bickering. 

Sansa stabs another icy look at Arya, endless sisterly bickering, before he picks up the gown as if handling a newborn child, cradling it gently to keep it from sweeping across the floor. “I thought maybe you’d be married under different circumstances perhaps, and not to…” Her face screws up in a sort of grimace, “a Lannister.” 

The disgust with which she says the name is all too understandable, and it’s been something Brienne has been dodging for...years now. After the executions, it had subsided, but The North remembers. 

Even still, Sansa smiles when she returns with the fabric confection, and presents it like she did the first time. 

“But I shouldn’t say things like that. This is your wedding day.” Her smile is familiar, a happy thing despite of her previous statements. And how like her, to be glad for Brienne even with the animosity she held for Jaime still. 

“Thank you, my lady,” Brienne replies quietly, because in truth she doesn’t want to hear that sort of thing today--she does nearly every other day, be it in Winterfell or Evenfall Hall, it’s there. Muttering, looks that reproach her for loving a Lannister, a traitor to some even if he was on their side when the time came. 

Most times Jaime doesn’t care. He had been exonerated by the Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms herself, and nothing had changed when it came to his regard of other people's opinions. For Brienne it was a touch harder, because she had seen of Jaime what no one else in the world ever would--even his sister, who she was loathe to think about most days. This insight made it harder, simply because she wished they knew the Jaime Lannister she knew. She loved.

And the thought of Cersei… 

Well Jaime was never the same, was he. She could see it in his eyes nearly every day, what that had done to him, would catch him staring at his hands and knew he was still seeing his sister’s blood there. It separated over the gold of his right, beading and sliding easily off the burnished metal.

Sansa helps Brienne into the dress, very conscious about how tight she pulled the laces--though it was still tight enough to straighten Brienne’s posture. Remarkably, it gave her a shape, too, which she had not expected--or expected to like--in the least. Arya flutters around from trestle to trestle, frowning and asking why this is this way, why you had to do this or that. 

But she only sees that in a glance over her shoulder, because Sansa is quick to turn her attention away from the mirror. 

“Not until we’re finished,” she says with a giddy smile. She returns to the little table beside the mirror, now behind Brienne. 

“How much is left?” She asks in disbelief. 

“Well, there’s a thing or two I wanted to surprise you with,” Sansa answers with an evident smile in her voice as she fusses at the trestle table. Brienne watches what she can, but looks over at Arya as well who gives nothing away, doesn't see what her lady is doing exactly, but she's opening some sort of small satchel, a doeskin pouch. 

When she turns, her hands are cupped around one another, hiding something, a surprise indeed. Once her hands are unfolded, Brienne first sees a pile of jewel and metal strung together, but upon second glance, recognizes the gifts for what they are. 

The earrings are teardrops the size of a man's eye, so deep blue they must be sapphire, but Brienne can't be sure. They hang from small golden stars by golden chain. The accompanying necklace is similar, the beautiful blue stones set square in the middle of gold stars. 

Both stun Brienne speechless with their beauty, and she's sure her mouth hangs agape. 

“My lady,” she murmurs, glancing up to where Sansa is grinning at her with overwhelming excitement. “They're beautiful.” 

“Let me put them on you, and we will be done.” Sansa dashes forward, and begins to lay the necklace about Brienne’s throat. She helps, holding it in place. 

When they tried to dress her as a child, her septas would always cluck and mutter about how she didn't have the looks for jewelry, how, no matter how they tried to dress her up, they could never make femininity...fit Brienne.

It makes her nervous to think that today of all days, it wouldn't fit yet again. There was little doubt Jaime would marry her all the same. Brienne didn't even know if he'd ever seen her in a gown…

“When I lifted the earrings, they didn't feel so heavy, so I thought they would suit you well.” Sansa sounds as if she's speaking of a fine horse to be purchased, evaluating its height and form. Brienne smiles, running her fingers across the curve of the necklace where it lays below the hollow of her throat. It’s shining and beautiful, a darker blue than her eyes that somehow complements them, but also the dress. 

There are hands on her shoulders then, always too thick, too muscular, turning her around to meet her reflection. 

Truth be told she hardly recognizes herself. Brienne knows she is still no...proper lady comfortable in dresses, but… her edges seem to have been catered to. The dress has given her some shape, pushed up what she doesn’t even think she’d call breasts, and the color makes her skin, freckles and all, glow. It’s a surprise, what a mere dress and set of jewelry could do to a person. 

She was still herself, she felt like she could still have her sword with its lion’s head belted to her waist--and that was a tempting thought. Perhaps Sansa would allow it, but would the red stones match the blue?

“My lady,” Brienne starts, stops, “Sansa…” She turns to look at the girl--but no she isn't a girl any longer, she is a woman, a wife, a sister, and Queen in the North, so wholly changed from the girl Brienne had met a handful of years ago on the cusp of winter. She turns to look at Sansa, whose smile is warm and broad.

“No need to thank me, Brienne,” Sansa replies, and steps forward to take Brienne’s hands in her own, “I owe the life I have now to you. For finding me, and helping me home -”

“Now stop that you -”

(From where she’s sitting drinking a fresh cup of wine, Arya makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. Truly she’s worse than Brienne in her hatred of “ladylike” things.)

Sansa squeezed her hands tight. 

“You've been a loyal friend to me for so many years Brienne, the least I could do is - is try and return some of that, however that may be, even if it is in the form o- “

Brienne laughed, a bit watery, and shook her head. “Don't say it.” 

“Of Jaime Lannister.” 

She can’t help but scoff, still half involved in her laughter, and roll her eyes, but thankfully Sansa laughs as well. At least she can be at least a bit lighthearted about it, that much makes Brienne feel better. 

When they’ve quieted down, and Sansa goes about tidying up the room, Brienne looks again at her reflection, and wonders just what Jaime will think. The thought of his reaction is exciting, and that is completely disarming--but what about their relationship hasn’t been that? 

“Sansa,” Brienne says after a few moments’ comfortable silence. “I think I’d like my sword.”

Of course Arya’s head snaps to look at her, beaming wide, and oh so very happy to fetch Oathkeeper from where it leaned beside the door. She hands it over to Brienne, and stands behind her in the mirror, grinning like a loon. 

 

-

 

Growing up in the south, Jaime never had much reason to visit the Rock’s Stone Garden, and it’s odd weirwood. He’d been, a time or two, with mother or father when he was small(though he could never remember why), but as he grew older, the sept was the place he visited more often. In Winterfell, where Ned Stark and his ancestors prayed, Jaime understands a little, why it was a place of worship; even with the murmurs of the gathered, it’s preternaturally quiet, still and cold and close, much like rooms in Winterfell itself. Something hung in this place, however, different from any in the castle, it was even different from the dripping damp ghosts of the crypts. 

“You know I didn’t really think I’d see you married,” Tyrion muses at his side, conversational as he ever was. 

“Did you, though.” Jaime doesn’t believe him for a moment. 

“What, did you think I thought I really would inherit the Rock while you stayed penned up in the Red Keep? Surely you don’t think me so stupid, Jaime.” 

He looks down at his little brother, and raises an eyebrow. Tyrion scoffs. 

“No, I didn’t think it would ever be me but. Still, marriage… are you sure? I adore Brienne, you know I do, she’s...honorable, but - “

“But?” Jaime puts on a faint, indulgent smile for Tyrion, only for him not to speak, shaking his head and tousling his hair instead. 

“Nevermind, forget I mentioned anything. She suits you.” 

“Does she.” It was amusing--Tyrion seemed more nervous than he did.

“Well, not in so many w- “

A hush settles over the godswood that makes it blindingly apparent how loudly they’d been speaking. It’s the snow, Jaime thinks, that makes it so quiet here, but amplifies the footsteps, the rustle of fabric as the witnesses--they’re just here to witness, Jaime, not guests this isn’t even a proper wedding--shift their weight, and four more more enter the wood. 

Perhaps he is a touch nervous. He feels himself shiver when he sees a shock of white-blonde hair, and red, and black. Blue, there is blue, gold, white, blue, gold--

He nearly laughs to see Oathkeeper at her waist...her waist?--

Everyone always described love and marriage to him relatively often, though they were not mutually exclusive and he knew that, but Jaime had never anticipated it being so...exact. Things narrowing down, melting away from a sharp point of focus and feeling and Brienne…

Gods, which ever set were looking down, but how had he come to this place? All the blood and turmoil and here he was and there she was. 

Brienne never had to be a typical beauty for Jaime to think she was beautiful. Seven Hells, he’d thought her disgusting to look upon almost a decade ago in the Riverlands, but that was part of the journey, wasn’t it. But then through the years when he came to know her, truly know her and her heart, the little things started to astonish him--her eyes, the cut of her cheekbone, her strong hands, and even the breadth of her freckled shoulders. It was love, of course, however loath Jaime was to admit it during those first green years. 

Today, however, she is something special, somehow even more staggeringly other than she usually was. Not a stunning beauty like that which Westeros prized so greatly in their noble ladies, but one that was striking, and came from all that set her apart. 

Jaime couldn’t think of the words to describe it, or her, but then again, he never could. 

Tyrion steps out from his place at Jaime’s side, and it’s more than obvious that Sansa’s gaze moves to him. She doesn’t quite look at either of them with disgust any more, but they understand when she does, truly. Tyrion always found her a bright, brave girl, even more so after she and Jon took Winterfell all those years ago. She brings a certain color to the place. 

“Who comes before the gods this day?” They changed things, just a little, and Jaime wonders when the last time a wedding was held here. 

“Brienne, of House Tarth,” Sansa begins, and Jaime hopes none of the tiny group of witnesses can see him twitch after his stomach had jumped at the words. He was fit to jump straight out of his skin, “comes to here to be wed.” 

“A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the gods.” 

“Jon Snow” is six times the man he was when Jaime first met him, when he was merely Ned Stark’s bastard, dreaming of becoming a brother of the Night’s Watch. He is a man now, a fucking Targaryen, which Jaime would never get used to, and while he never accepted the title of “king”, he was married to a Queen--an odd child, was he. But he had been hardened by the last decade, much like Sansa, if Jaime thinks on it, because though she looks like fine porcelain, she had suffered more than most. 

“Who comes to claim her?” Arya chimes in, her voice as chilly and deadly as winter, and her dark eyes fix on Jaime in a way that tells him just how easily she could kill him should he mistreat Brienne. 

And truly, they make a fine pack of wolves, staring hard at Jaime and his brother, as if they were still some threat, like they may put up a fight. 

Brienne watches Sansa, but doesn’t see her. And she won’t look at him!

“Jaime,” he pauses, he does, it still catches him just so, “of the House Lannister. Who gives her?” 

Which, those lines are silly, agreed upon only, because neither Jaime nor Brienne needed giving or claiming. That had been said and done years ago, without word or action...then again, saying it so plain for people to hear did give him some satisfaction. 

“Sansa, of House Stark, whom she served as friend, protector, and counselor.” She spoke archly, every bit the noble lady she was in name, and gods was she regal. If the marriage between her and Tyrion had been one of willing parties, they would have made a dangerous pair.

“Arya, of House Stark, to whom she owes a good bit of the tricks she’s learned recently.” Arya grinned something small and secret at Brienne, who returned the expression as easy as breathing. They trained in the brisk mornings in the practice yard of Winterfell, Arya hopping light as a bird around Brienne who, for all of her talents, just could not keep up from time to time. 

There’s the crunch of paws in snow, and Ghost helps himself to a drink from the pond, so there’s laughter in Jon’s voice when he speaks. 

“And Jon, of Houses Stark and Targaryen. Her brother in arms.” 

Jaime nods his thanks to them, even though they don’t want it, or really even care that he gives it. 

And Gods, gods, Seven hells, what did I do to deserve this much? He was swearing a streak in his head, and it was so hard to pay attention, to hear Tyrion speak again, because he could only look at her. Brienne, and he can’t remember the last time he saw her in a dress. Could it truly have been Harrenhall? No, King’s Landing, when he had given her the sword--

There it hangs, the lion head pommel the same gold as the necklace about her throat. He shook his head and smiled, a small thing only for her, and finally she was looking at him, finally, eyes on his as a flush rose in her cheeks that wasn’t simply from the cold. 

“I take this man.” Somehow it’s jarring when she speaks, her chin ticking up in that proud way she still hasn’t grown out of, that makes him grin--then again, perhaps it’s what she’s saying. 

He wants to kiss her, when would the old gods permit that? 

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa says, breaking him from his reverie. Her brow is only slightly furrowed, but she still looks a predator, “do you take this woman?” 

“Do I,” he mutters, and steps around his brother, between two wolves. “I take this woman.” 

There are snowflakes in her eyelashes, Jaime can feel them melt under his lips where he kisses her closed eyes, her cheek, her nose, her mouth. 

“I take this woman.” 

 

-

 

Jaime touches the necklace delicately, then his finger brushes a bottom of an earring Brienne nearly forgot she was wearing. 

“It’s very nice,” he says archly, hand moving down the back of Brienne’s neck, then to her back. “Sansa knows you well.” 

It's true, though Brienne hadn't anticipated how it makes her feel. Happy, appreciated. 

“I owe her...much and more, to be honest.” She looks up at the red leaves of the weirwood, and the grey dappled sky beyond them. 

“That makes two of us,” Jaime adds, and Brienne can feel his eyes on her. They hadn't left her, really, since she entered the godswood, which Brienne doesn't mind in the least--in fact she wonders if the feeling she gets when he looks at her will ever go away. 

An eternity of that stretches out in front of her, and excitement wells up in her chest. 

“Shall we?” Jaime drops his hand from where it had rested in the dip of her back, to offer her his arm, which Brienne takes with a soft smile. 

“You don't have to start treating me like a lady just because I'm wearing a dress,” she tells him, and she feels the tips of her ears go red. Jaime scoffs a laugh at her. 

“Today is exceptional, just like that dress, so if I want to treat you like the Lady of Casterly Rock, I'm going to. Dear wife.” His teasing, patronizing tone is more familiar, and makes Brienne smile in spite of herself. She won't admit out loud she likes walking arm-in-arm with him, or that him calling her wife gives her a tremor of excitement. 

“Tomorrow, we can carry on like normal.” 

But what will normal be now? They've been at Winterfell for some time now, and for the immediate future they'll stay because of the impassable winter roads, but further than that? Brienne has no idea. 

Casterly Rock isn't out of the question, even though it’s stood abandoned since the wars ended. Technically, and by rights they should go to Tarth, were Brienne would sit as Lady of Evenfall Hall, but she's been away for so long, would they accept her there? How would they look upon Jaime?

Then again, she married him because she didn’t care what anyone thought, didn’t she. 

Brienne tells herself not to worry over it too much, for tonight was for celebration, and just this once she wanted something for herself, and for Jaime, too. 

 

The Great Hall of Winterfell is warm, a huge fire burning in the hearth that could be felt almost all the way across the hall. It was lit with torches, too, but still somehow a bit dim, and with the few tables that were set out for the guests, it made the room feel close. Brienne used that excuse to move her chair just a few inches toward Jaime’s, though he could undoubtedly see this all made her just a bit uncomfortable, and so he reached out to take her hand lightly in his, easy. 

Before the food for dinner is brought out, a singer hushes the hall with something sweet, about time and love and knights, Brienne doesn’t pay too close attention, but perks up and gives him a smile as the applause starts. 

She’s grateful for the excuse of food, because then the focus turns from them, and their guests stop looking at them for at least a few moments. Sansa had apparently turned out all of her power for this, too, because there was so much food, Brienne was a little shocked. Roast fish from the coast, near the size of dogs, stuffed with lemon and onion, as well as boar, and honeyed capon. Even Jaime was shocked at the bountiful feast, though the wine was what pleased him the most. 

“I’ve never been to a Northron vineyard,” he mused, tipping his cup back and forth to watch the wine, some sort of white from the New Gift, slosh up to the edge. “It’s sweeter than in the south, somehow.” 

Brienne turns to tell him something about how it has something to do with the grapes and what happens when they freeze, but the words stick when she sees him. 

Gods, he looks happy. 

She clenches her jaw against the onslaught of a lump in her throat, and the tears, but it does next to nothing to quell her shock. Jaime cocks his head, frowning. 

“What?” 

Shaking her head, she smiles, because truly she isn’t melancholy, only caught off guard. That he was happy with her, truly happy even though it had been so long, didn’t seem to have set in until now. 

“I…” Again she shakes her head and turns her gaze to her lap, where her dress is still sparkling in the candlelight of the table. She can feel Jaime move beside her, their fingers tangled still as he leans across the space between them to press a rather wet kiss to the corner of her mouth. He stays perched there, elbow balanced on the arm of his chair until she looks up at him. That wily look is in his green eyes, a grin threatening. 

“Don’t look so shocked, Brienne,” he murmurs, breath warm and wet and smelling of wine, “some time soon you’re going to have to remember that I love you. I’ll keep reminding you, but you’ll remember it, one day.” 

He kisses her quickly, briefly, again, only to lean in a third time for a longer press of lips. Another thing she’ll have to remember, too, is that they are free to do this, wherever and whenever they like. It’s unheard of for her, but must be liberating for Jaime, to be able to show affection for someone he loves. For Brienne, it’s one more thing that she had never dreamed she’d have, or thought to yearn for, yet here she is, bringing a hand up to Jaime’s hair to hold him close if but for a moment longer. 

Jaime steals kisses like that for the rest of the meal. He presses his lips to her knuckles, to her hairline, to her ear, and gods it’s...it’s frustrating? It sets Brienne to shivering, cheeks hot from more than the wine and the fire and the attention--however it isn’t quite as bad as when they bring out the sweets. 

There are Sansa’s favorite lemon cakes, of course, which Brienne loves too, along with baked apples, blueberries in cream, sweet biscuits, and more, but Brienne doesn’t know which she likes the most.

“Would you like some of mine?” Brienne asks Jaime after they’d been sampling desserts. He shakes his head, blond hair shaggy around his ears like when they’d first met. She realizes he’s busying himself with honeycomb and bread. 

“My mother used to give this to us for breakfast every so often,” he tells her as he spreads a bit of honeycomb over the slice of warm bread, and contemplates it for a moment, “as a treat. Would you like some?”

Brienne nods simply, expecting to have a bite, how he liked it, but instead Jaime dips a finger into the bowl, into the honey, then offers it to her. For a moment she does nothing, but then he makes a motion with his hand, urging her, and so she leans in haltingly to close her lips around his proffered finger. The honey is thick, and on instinct she sucks, her tongue dragging over the pad of his finger. 

Jaime works his jaw, and he’s smirking like the cat that got the cream. Again thinking people are probably looking, Brienne draws back quickly, and licks her lips. 

 

-

 

Because he apparently can’t help himself, Tormund Giants...Jaime almost can’t remember what until Brienne reminds him, Giantsbane. Oh yes of course, how could I forget, he said, mouth twisting as he sat back and watched the wildling make his way between the tables of guests. Invited guests. 

Jaime doesn’t inherently have a problem with wildlings. He has a problem with wildlings who are in love with Brienne, stupidly and blatantly in love with Brienne. His wife. 

(That’s going to take a little while to set in, much as he think it won’t.)

Wildlings don’t kneel, generally they pride themselves on that, but Tormund isn’t just a wildling, not anymore, Jaime thinks as he slides down in his seat a touch, head propped in his hand. No, Tormund controls the majority of the New Gift, as...whatever title the other wildlings give him, Jaime doesn’t really care. 

“Brienne,” he calls in that hearty sort of voice of his, grinning wide under his red-grey beard. Brienne smiles subtly, and rises. 

“Lady Brienne, or even Ser, if you like.” Jaime can’t help himself, even though he had vowed internally to shut up and suffer through whatever Tormund was going to do or say. 

Lifting her dress so the hem won’t drag on the floor, Brienne rounds the small table they occupy by themselves, and goes to embrace Tormund, swaddled in ratty furs and leather. Jaime picks up, then finishes whatever wine is left in his cup. 

“Good of you to come,” Brienne tells him, before she returns to her seat. 

“Aye,” Tormund replies, and he looks more than a little out of place, “but I wanted to give this to you m’self, once I heard you were to be wed.” He looks at Jaime briefly. 

Another wildling who had otherwise gone completely unnoticed steps up beside Tormund with a huge bundle in his hands, tanned leather bound with twine. Tormund takes it, delicately like it isn’t a heaping pile of animal skin, and walks it to the table, placing it at Brienne’s left hand. There he stays. 

“I..thank you, Tormund,” Brienne says as she rises to pull at the twine. 

Jaime watches her, firstly, but Tormund is looking too excited for comfort, even though the gift appears to be nothing more than a pile of soft-looking furs. 

“Oh...” Brienne murmurs, just loud enough that Jaime can hear, and he frowns as she picks something up--a dagger, it seems, nestled atop the fur. 

“Both for your bed,” Tormund announces proudly, and a chuckle rumbles through the hall, so Jaime has the good sense to smile along with everyone else. Jon Snow is undoubtedly enjoying the spectacle. 

“It’s lovely, Tormund,” Brienne tells him as she unsheathes the dagger. It’s not an insignificant size, either, the blade at least a hand’s length on its own. That is made out of some sort of crude metal, no doubt whatever the wildlings could get their hands on, whereas the hilt is intricately carved, Jaime can see that much even from his seat. 

She holds it delicately, blade in one hand, hilt in the other, as she turns to show Jaime. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” 

There is amber in the hilt as well, amongst whatever animals or patterns are carved into the bone. 

“Quite,” he concedes with a tight smile. If she’s happy, so is he. 

“It’s nothing to carry into battle, really, but something good to keep. I thought you’d need something like that. Can’t go carryin’ that sword around all day.” Tormund grins crookedly, evidently proud of himself, and Brienne smiles back at him with a fond sort of tolerance. 

“Well they’re both fine gifts, Tormund. You have my thanks.” It’s not entirely surprising when Brienne leans across the table to give the wildling an awkward peck on the cheek--and Tormund looks like he’s won the whole North on his own, which. Actually makes Jaime feel good. 

He’s been a better man, in recent years, mostly because of Brienne, but he can’t help but feel smug because Tormund is so obviously hopeless for her, and yet. 

“Tormund I do hope you’ll stay for a drink, or at very least to see the other gifts, since we’ve started,” Jaime says as he stands, so most everyone can hear. 

“Not for any of that pisswater you folk call wine,” Tormund grouses, his jovial air gone. Spell broken, “for a word with Jon and Sansa, yes.” 

Jaime waves a hand. “Whatever your reason.” 

The wildling turns to find a seat, only to pause, and look back to Brienne. 

“If you’re ever tired of being a lady, Brienne, you know where to find us!” Tormund bellows, followed by a laugh that the crowd echoes, and Jaime does too--though it’s humorless and sour, sets his expression into a grimace when he sits down again. 

“You’re an idiot,” Brienne mutters when the hall hash quieted again to a dull murmur. 

“Oh please…” 

“You can’t possibly be jealous of Tormund.” And her tone reflects just how ridiculous she thinks that notion is. Jaime glances over at Brienne, but doesn’t meet her gaze, and says nothing. She scoffs. “You’re jealous?!” 

She’s colored that deep red she gets when she’s truly angry with him, or ashamed, so that cows Jaime just a little. He doesn’t want her upset with him today. 

“Can you blame me,” he starts, “for being a bit put out? I wasn’t hideously rude, was I, so I think I’ve a right to feel...protective of you…” Saying that out loud makes him feel sheepish, and Jaime frowns down at his lap where his golden hand rests. 

Brienne doesn’t cool immediately, but then again, she may not have been that angry if she’s looking at him like - like she wants to laugh?

Her lips press together, fighting off what is undoubtedly a ridiculous grin. She eases herself back into her seat, and rests an elbow on the arm of her chair so she can balance her chin in her hand. 

“Idiot.” She says it so fervently, quietly as she finally lets the broad smile break across her lips just before she covers it with her fingers and her shoulders shake with silent laughter. 

Jaime has to smile as well, but then he raises his eyebrows a little as a thought dawns on him. 

“And you, sweetling, are drunk, aren't you?” Because no, that isn’t laughter, she was giggling at him. Her expression sobers a touch, and she lifts her chin. Always trying to look so proud, that one.

“I’m not drunk, no,” she starts, and Jaime nods, eagerly awaiting the rest, “I’ve had..two, maybe three glasses of wine.” 

“Four,” he corrects, after a brief recall in his head, “I’ve had about the same, I believe.” 

“I think I’ve a right.” And she is most certainly mocking the tone he’d had on moments ago, which. “It’s our wedding, after all.” 

Yet again Jaime is caught with a horrible fondness that draws him up short and chokes the words right out of him. It keeps happening, he keeps getting bludgeoned with this, with the realization of just how much he adores this woman, how desperately cares for this person. This sort of feeling had only come with Brienne, the waves of it, reminding him that he was hopeless for her. 

It was different before, he was constantly telling himself that he loved Cersei. That the things he did, they were out of love for Cersei. It drove him for such a long time, that realizing it was false, something he clung to desperately - ruined, was a decent word for it. 

Jaime still tries not to think of her, to not pick at that scab, as often as possible, and yet there she is, sneering at him, looking down her nose, the wench, really Jaime--

But Cersei is dead and Brienne, Brienne is real, reaching over to take his hand gently in hers to break him from the daydream. She’s always been able to tell, somehow, when Jaime went away like this, and while in the early days it wasn’t easy, her voice does the trick now. 

Like being woken from sleep, he inhales deeply and raises his eyebrows at her, even though he’s been staring at her this whole time. Her gaze acknowledges this, before she tips her head toward where Tyrion is standing before the table, hands folded as he waits patiently. 

“Apologies,” Jaime says to no one in particular. Tyrion shrugs.

“I was going to present your gift, but it can wait.” His smile is familiar, and there’s part of Jaime that is glad that much hasn’t changed. 

“By all means, Lord Tyrion,” Brienne tells him before Jaime can reply. 

With all attention on him, Tyrion sweeps an arm back to the entrance of the hall, where again the doors swing open for two servants. Jaime can’t see what they have, but the collective attention of everyone in the hall turns toward the newest guests and what they’ve brought. There’s no commotion really, just a few voices that rise to appraise what’s being brought in, but still, Jaime can’t begin to guess. 

Nothing taller than the table, to be sure, but only just, and he sees why when the servants round the end of the farthest table, each with an enormous dog at the end of a rope lead. Not threadbare rope, like Tormund’s gift had been wrapped with, but thick and golden, attached to collars the width of three fingers and embroidered with, predictably, red and gold. 

“A pair of hounds, from across the Narrow Sea, my lord and lady,” Tyrion continues, ushering quiet back into the hall as the dogs are brought before the dais, where they stand wagging their tails. They’re happy looking, tongues lolling out of their mouths, and large ears turned to attention. One is black, and the other is a sandy red. 

Jaime looks to Brienne, and smiles before he stands to receive these...gifts. 

“Fine creatures,” he tells his brother. He kneels before the black dog, who proceeds to sniff at his face, then tries to lick it, though Jaime is just fast enough to lean out of the way. Behind him, Brienne giggles, and the whole hall echoes the sentiment. 

“Indeed, Lord Tyrion, they’re quite beautiful,” she adds. Jaime runs a hand over the dog’s smooth, muscled shoulder, and glances to Tyrion. 

“Not for hunting, surely. They wouldn’t last the winter here.” 

His brother nods. 

“Of course not. Not for hunting here, anyhow. They’re Meereenese, so accustomed to warm weather, but I imagine, until spring comes, they’ll be comfortable in the halls of Winterfell.” Tyrion has a smile on that says he knew each of Jaime’s words long before they left his mouth, which he often did. 

Brienne loved animals. Loved hunting hounds and pi dogs that scavenged the little villages they rode through, loved Ghost and the shaggy wildling beasts that now roamed the outskirts of Winter Town. She’d save scraps of dinner when she could, and lure in even the most savage of the beasts just to pat it’s head. Of course, she had a way with them, turned anything from a direwolf to an unsocialized mutt into a puppy, happy to be pet. 

“Aren’t you going to come and say hello?” Jaime stood and turned to Brienne, who looked unsure if she should, but wanted to of course, and when he asked, she all but sprang from her seat. She was at his side in a moment, kneeling beside him to appraise their new gifts. 

It was almost heartbreaking, having to pry Brienne away from the dogs, so happy was she to scratch their ears and rub their backs, but Jaime figured if he didn’t, she’d stay there all night. 

Because the gifts had started, any guest of any significance found the time to present theirs. More wildlings Brienne had fought with, Lyanna Mormont, who insisted Brienne still owed her lessons in sword play, and other lords and ladies loyal to the Starks. Those gifts were small and no doubt obligatory, but both Jaime and Brienne smiled graciously when they received them. Armor, daggers, a spear, even, cloth and clothing and wine and jewels from all the Seven Kingdoms and farther. 

From Arya and Sansa, was a more...nuanced gift. Land along the coast of the Shivering Sea, between Moat Cailin and Greywater Watch. And pointedly in Brienne’s name. 

“In case you ever miss the cold.” 

And Sansa, Mother bless the girl, looks as if Brienne is her first born daughter, being swept away by some smarmy lord she happened to fall in love with. Jaime understands, truly, he does. Brienne saved the girl’s life--but she isn’t a girl any longer, he keeps having to remind himself. The Queen in the North. 

Jaime doesn’t know how he’s ever going to thank her for all of this, or if he even can. Tyrion might grant him some of the gold under the Rock, but never enough to repay the Stark girl. Woman.

When she weeps, Brienne’s eyes look like the jewels about her neck, and Jaime says nothing as she stands to embrace the Ladies of Winterfell. He does nod to them both, hoping it's enough to convey the fact that he is grateful for the happiness they had given Brienne, now and before. 

That would put most any gift to shame, and so it was predictably saved for last, though Jaime is glad for it, though he can't decide if he wants to wait to give his. Dinner is all but over, the music neither raucous nor sleepy, and all of the guests are intent on their drinks more than anything else now that all of the pomp and circumstance had passed. It's as good a time as any really. 

Jaime leans in to Brienne, who turns when she catches the movement in the corner of her eye. They're a little red around the edges, just like her cheeks, and Jaime has to smile. 

“Would you allow me to steal you away long enough to give you my gift?” 

Brienne’s eyebrow ticks up in response, and her expression settles into something wry.

“Is it really a gift, or is it a...figure of speech?” 

Jaime barks a laugh, and reaches out for her hand to kiss at her fingers. “You think you're clever don't you. It is a gift for you, and I'm a little insulted you think I'd make such a simple joke.” 

Her expression shows her surprise, a bit vulnerable like she is some times, but still, Brienne nods. 

Keeping her hand in his, Jaime glances back to the assembled crowd before him, and pushes back his chair as quietly as if they were sneaking through the courtyard at midnight. They slip away unnoticed, however, and Jaime is actually somewhat grateful--it was no secret many people in that hall disliked him, and they made it perfectly clear they didn't trust him with Brienne. Alone, with her, he could breathe. 

“Where exactly...where are we going?” Brienne asks, just before they push out into the courtyard of Winterfell.

The cold is bracing, snatches the breath from their lungs and fogs it in the air, and perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all. 

“Seven hells,” Brienne curses beside him, but she glances over at him expectantly. 

Day old snow crunches beneath their feet, and Jaime is glad for the moon, wide and glowing above the castle, because it lights the yard as if it were day, and guides him to the stables. Somehow, he still wasn't familiar with Winterfell.

There, he lets go of Brienne’s hand in favor of searching for the stall, the only one occupied tonight. It's lit, just as he'd asked, by a single torch that he takes from his peg before he looks to Brienne where she stands all but ringing her hands in the doorway.

“Brienne,” he says, as if he were waking her from sleep, and she reacts almost accordingly, flinching and springing into action. It's obvious how unnatural picking up her skirts as she walks is to her, but it's still a sight that makes Jaime smile. 

Beside him, the mare knickers inquisitively. 

“Hush,” he tells her as Brienne comes to stand beside him, pressed up against his side, and he puts an arm around her waist. He holds the torch a little higher to better illuminate the stall. 

The mare is enormous for her sex, for her breed, even, but she is an exceptionally beautiful creature. In the dim light, her mottled spots are hard to see, deep grey and white, but her black mane is glossy and stark in comparison.

Brienne is silent, still, until she says, “Jaime,” and steps forward. 

With little more consideration for her wedding dress, Brienne swings the gate aside and enters the fresh stall, watching the mare watch her. 

“She doesn't have a name, of course.” Jaime watches with his arms folded on the gate, and a deep sense of satisfaction settling in his belly. 

“She's beautiful,” Brienne murmurs, awed as she raises a hand in the mare’s vision, then moves close to pet her muzzle. The horse snuffles, lips twitching to the side as if to investigate. Brienne offers her hand, and laughs softly when the mare starts to nibble at her fingers like a teething child.

She carries on with the horse like this for some time, and Jaime watches, freezing with cold, but molten with happiness. 

Thankfully Brienne hasn't forsaken him for the mare, however, because eventually she turns her affection to him again. Smiling but otherwise silent, she wraps her arms around him, and consumes him with a kiss deep enough to make his toes curl in his boots. The stall gate between them digs into Jaime’s stomach, and he wonders if he’s ever, ever been this happy. 

-

Initially Brienne had never thought she’d ever be comfortable in any state of undress with Jaime, or anyone for that matter, but that passed remarkably quickly. The first time, neither of them were full out of their clothes, mostly just pulled strings and anything necessary pushed aside, but the second and third times were less hurried. At inns along the Kingsroad, a simple room with a locking door, all one needed, really. Any chagrin she might have felt was burned away by the way Jaime looked at her. 

It’s a funny sort of situation, him pulling at the laces of her wedding gown, one neither of them had surely ever dreamt of happening. But there they are, in their given room in Winterfell, remarkably warm, Jaime’s golden hand resting on her waist. 

Brienne yawns, her new husband laughs. 

“Come now, we’ve still a night ahead of us,” he says, loosening the bottom most laces of the gown with a few firm tugs that, were she slighter, might have tugged Brienne back against him. 

“I’m not tired,” she protests, but with the wine and the warmth and the unadulterated joy, she feels…content. Relaxed enough to feel so thoroughly sleepy, like she could sleep for a hundred years after this. “It’s the wine - ” Blessedly, the bodice loosens it’s grip on her body, and Brienne takes a deep gasp of air. “Gods, it didn’t feel that tight before…” 

Jaime hums his ascent, and reaches up to push the sleeves down her shoulders, his chilly, false hand helping where it could. “You get used to it, I hear. Not that you will.” 

He was right, of course, Brienne would never wear another dress like this her entire life, if she could get away with it, and she vowed to do as much. On an occasion such as this, she found it acceptable, something to be marked with special things, but now that the ceremony was over, so was Brienne’s brief admiration of the dress. Now, as it pooled at her feet in a frothy blue pile, she was glad to be rid of it--though not just because it was uncomfortable. 

Left in just her smallclothes, Brienne turned to face Jaime, who was watching her closely, as he always did, hands still lingering, hovering, here at the small of her back, now at her waist as if he needed to steady himself. She brought her hands up to the fastenings of his jerkin, working them open as he had done for her. In gold and red, he still looked the glory of House Lannister, even though it had faded many years ago. He had his own about him, at least to Brienne. 

“What?”

Her hands stilled on the lapels of is jerkin, before pushing it open after a beat, leaving him looking rogueish and utterly handsome, like some knight from a story. Wasn’t he? The beauty, the good man, the redeemer. 

“Did you ever think,” he started, head tilting back in that smug way he had, and a small smile forming on his face, “when Lady Catelyn brought you to that muddy little cell, and showed you the Kingslayer, did you ever think you’d marry him?” 

Brienne laughs, but gives no other answer than to slide her hands beneath his jerkin to slide it off his shoulders to join her dress on the floor, which Jaime apparently isn’t satisfied with. 

“Well? What would you have said, if someone told us, maybe in one of those inns along the way, what if they said ‘why, you’ll be married when the wars are all over’?” And he was serious, his face open and tone only slightly teasing, which may have been the fault of the wine. Still, he was searching Brienne’s face, his hands steady at her waist and unmoving as he awaited his answer. Apparently he was willing to put off the bedding part of their union until he had it. 

Brienne wasn’t, so she kept on undressing him, hands falling to the waist of his trousers to pull the laces apart. 

“I would’ve sent them sprawling, I imagine,” she answered wistfully, looking up and away at nothing as she thought. But of course now that the question was in her head, she couldn’t help but calculate her reaction. “Then I would have shrugged it off like I did any one of your taunts.” 

Jaime almost looks offended. “You wouldn’t believe it? Not even a little?” But he’s still smirking, of course. 

“Would you?” Brienne levels him with a dead-eyed, deadpan look, because she knows what he thought of her of a time, and vice versa. The reply she gets is a slight squirm from her husband (gods, he’s her husband now), certainly because he knows she’s right, but he would have liked another answer. That they were destined, they knew it all along! 

“I wouldn’t have been so shocked. Though after that day on the bridge, when you beat me into the dirt, that’s when it became a possibility.” Smile gone, Jaime simply gazed up at her with that raw sort of affection of his, green eyes showing nothing but utter sincerity. It was a look that had made Brienne’s heart beat a dangerous rhythm, one that used to scare her but now she was familiar with, even welcomed. 

She rolled her eyes nonetheless. 

“Was that when it was?” She asked feigning shock and face settling into a sardonic expression. “We could have been married ten times over if only you’d proposed!” 

Humming his assent, Jaime pursed his lips, his eyes moving from her face. To her neck, maybe, her chest…

“I never have had good timing,” he murmured, left hand reaching back for the laces of the small bodice Sansa had insisted needed to be worn with the dress. To give you shape, she had said, but Brienne found it nothing but uncomfortable, at least until now. 

“I’d rather have you late than not at all,” she replied, making Jaime look up to her again as he smiled something almost...sad. Brienne knew those smiles, knew how much regret this man felt for his past, and that there was little she could do but be there, an offering of open arms, whatever he needed. 

“Turn ‘round.” Jaime twisted her at the hips gently to guide her, and Brienne couldn’t help but snort a laugh. 

“I expected romance on my wedding night, Ser Jaime, not to be bedded like a tavern wench,” she teased, emboldened somewhat by the wine. She glances around the room for another pitcher, just in case…

“Oh you think you’re terribly funny, don’t you,” Jaime replies in a quiet, smiling voice as he pulls the laces of the bodice free, one by one, too slow, “and anyway, you’re saying that to a man who knows you like being bedded like a tavern wench from time to time.” 

Even if she was toying with him, Brienne goes red from chest to ears because she still isn’t used to speaking so freely about what she and Jaime do in bed. He on the other hand, does it often just to make her squirm and blush and because he knows she’ll kiss him just to shut him up. 

Despite his words, he treats her gentle as any virtuous young bride from children’s stories, pulling the small garment from her waist. It leaves her in the white underdress, and the warm stockings she’d donned before anything else. Another drawback of dresses, they did very little to keep the legs warm, and especially when walking across snow or frozen ground, yet one more reason Brienne was swearing them off for good.  
When she turns back to Jaime, it’s in time to watch him pull his shirt over his head with his left hand, a practiced motion, and discarded it with the rest of their clothing. He was scarred, pink and white, chest dusted with hair and nipples the color of watered wine, and Brienne had never seen a man so handsome. She reached out to the straps that held his false hand in place and began to work them loose, frowning when she saw the pink marks they left in his arm. 

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s alright,” Jaime told her, patience personified, once he saw her expression. Still, once she had the golden limb extricated and set on a table, she rubbed her fingers over the trails leather had left in flesh. 

Because at heart, Jaime is still the lion, ever calculating, always clever, he uses the contact to guide her to the bed, though she perches on the edge to peel off the stockings that didn’t keep her legs warm enough. Her skin rises with gooseflesh, from the cold, but how Jaime is looking at her, too. 

It’s something she makes herself ignore as she shuffles under the furs, because this really isn’t the night for a tumble on top of the bedclothes, it’s a sight too cold, at which her new husband raises his eyebrows, but says nothing as he pushes his trousers off to join her. Brienne wiggles down until only her eyes are above the coverlet, and watches Jaime’s body as he lifts it to slide in beside her. 

He shivers, then sidles close until their bodies touch, and she can feel his warmth through the thin shift she doesn’t really know why she kept on. Their legs tangle almost out of habit, downy hair tickling skin, and Brienne raises her hand to Jaime’s freshly shaven cheek when his own rests on her waist. She doesn’t know why he insisted on shaving for the wedding, but it makes him look younger. 

“I wish we’d have gone to the Rock for this,” he sighs, and they’re close enough that she can taste the wine on his breath. Chasing it, Brienne kisses him, licks his upper lip. 

“For what?” She murmurs, but is distracted. 

“The wedding. It’s too bloody cold.” Jaime says the words against her lips, his hand already fisting the thin fabric of the shift and pulling it up over her hips. Brienne can feel him rousing against her belly, and a little thrill shivers through her like always. 

“It’s cold there too. It’s winter.” Truth be told she’s never been to Casterly Rock, but assumes everywhere is as direly cold during a winter so terrible. “Anyway, we wouldn’t have made it, the roads are impassable. We’re here until they are.” 

Jaime kisses her soundly, dipping his tongue into her mouth while she digs her fingers into his shoulder, and pulls him on top of her. He settles there with a practiced ease, and Brienne lets her legs part to accommodate his hips. It makes her sigh; here, she doesn’t have to wear a dress or rouge on her cheeks, doesn’t have to be a bride, or think about either of their inheritances. Right now she’s Brienne, who is completely overwhelmed with how much she loves the man atop her. 

“It will be warm come spring,” Jaime muses again as his kisses slow, and trail idly down Brienne’s throat. “The gardens explode with enough flowers to rival Highgarden, and the sun warms the castle’s floor so when the breeze comes in off the sea at night, your feet stay warm.”

The wistful smile he wears makes Brienne smile, and she cards a hand through his graying hair. He must miss his home. 

“I’d like to see it,” she says, quiet like the room around them. “I want you to see Tarth, too.” 

An unwelcome curl of cool air sweeps in between them when Jaime sits up on his knees, hands intent on Brienne’s shift. He pulls it gently off, tosses it away, and before she can pull him in to warm herself again, Brienne watches where Jaime’s eyes pointedly glance to her pebbled nibbles. His lips slant into a smirk, and he brings the warmth of his body back to hers. 

“Then perhaps we’ll visit the Rock on our journey south,” Jaime murmurs, lips hovering above Brienne’s. His weight settles against her again, and when she feels his stiffened cock against her, she squirms as if it’ll help him inside any quicker. 

She’s sure Jaime is still smiling when he reaches between them to take his cock in hand and presses it against the folds of her cunt, which has her groaning, irate. 

“Jaime,” she all but whispers, fingers digging in to his shoulders as if it would spur him into action, but even if they’re married, even if they’ve known one another for years, she should know by now that he won’t do anything he doesn’t want to do just then. 

“What?” Of course, Jaime asks as if he hasn’t the foggiest idea of what she means, but it’s just then that she feels the blunt tip of him against her. Brienne’s hands move down to the small of his back and her fingers curl into him again. 

“Don’t toy with me, not tonight.” She tries to be firm with him, as if that’s ever worked, but of course it falls flat, and she just sounds desperate. It makes him smile, and he exhales, relaxes against her. 

“Why? We don’t have a thing to do in the morning. Or during the day. Or for the rest of the winter, for that matter.” 

He is, unfortunately, very correct. But that doesn’t mean he can take his sweet time. 

“Then you’d better take advantage, old man. Your stamina isn’t what it used to be.” 

It’s a low blow, of course, but their relationship was founded on such jabs, wasn’t it? 

Brienne watches as Jaime’s expression goes shocked-flat, then to something like anger, then a grimacing smile. 

They spend the night proving Brienne wrong as much as physically possible, and until they collapse from exhaustion. It’s beautiful. 

 

-

 

Jaime wakes in the morning before both Brienne and the sun. He can see it in the east, through the clouds, trying desperately to cut through the seemingly endless gloom and fog of the winter, but it’s an entirely losing battle, and though it’s bloody cold, Jaime moves out from under the haven of the coverlet and furs. He steps into a loose pair of trousers and a shirt, before moving to toss a log on the dying embers of the fire and stir a new flame to life. 

When he turned toward the balcony, he was intercepted by the sight of Brienne’s dress, laid lovingly over a chair beside the mirror and a small trestle table where here her earrings, necklace, and Jaime’s golden right hand lay. Beyond that, Oathkeeper was hung on the sword stand, looking rather official. Widow’s Wail, on the other hand was propped against the stone wall, mostly consumed by the shadow there. Jaime doesn’t think he’d touched it since they’d trudged through the gate of Winterfell, and, at a loss of what to do, they’d found a room, and slept for a few days. 

Jaime leans in the open window as the proposal came to mind, after thinking of the days after the war. Before all that, though, and in all likelihood, they thought they were going to die. It was further North than he would have liked, but letting the dead walk right up to the gates of Winterfell would mean they’d come too far, and if they passed it well. That would be the end of the rest of Westeros, wouldn’t it? 

So the army--the ragtag group of Northerners, Southerners, the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and of course, the dragons--marched north from Winterfell to intercept the Night King and his assembled forces. After reports from the scouts, camp was struck between Long Lake and the Lonely Hills, hoping to lure the enemy into a choke point of sorts, but of course that was before they found out the Night King also had a dragon, which complicated things a bit. 

Their forces ended up scattered. Brienne was given command of a company that was too small to be of any use, so Jaime took what few men he had, or that had agreed to follow him, anyway, and joined her in the Lonely Hills. It of course didn’t take long for them to be cut off from the main contingent, and their men swiftly picked off to join the enemy.  
Every day there was more snow, more wind, and no time for any of them to recover save for at night, when the temperature dropped even more. But the wind calmed just enough to allow for a small fire, though a candle probably would have done them more good. There were no supplies to be had, now that they were lost to the army, essentially, and they had no idea if any of their scouts had indeed made it to tell Jon Snow, to tell the Mother of Dragons, anyone that they were lost. 

Jaime and Brienne seemed to gravitate toward one another when it came time to conserve what warmth they had left, sitting pressed together, shoulder to ankle, heads bent together against the snow. There was frost in their hair, in his beard, biting at their nostrils, but after a point, Jaime stopped feeling the cold, really. It was a relief in a way, because he felt warm, and tired in a different way than the bone deep exhaustion that they’d been experiencing for weeks now. It was peaceful. 

“Jaime,” Brienne had said, her voice soft, but demanding an answer. She jostled him with her shoulder, but was forced to reach out and catch him, pull him back to her when he simply started to slump away from her. “Jaime!” 

He remembers the ice and snow in her eyelashes, her dirty hair, and the panic in her expression. 

“I’m glad,” he’d mumbled, the movement of his cracked lips almost feeling foreign, “I’m glad you’re here, Brienne.” 

At that her brow furrowed deep, and something far away in Jaime recognized it as anger. 

“Oh save it, you bastard,” she said, and again her voice was tired, drained, but for this she mustered some fervor, “Jon will send a man, Ser Davos perhaps. We’ll be back home soon.” 

It’s talk to keep someone alive and full of hope, but Jaime didn’t need it just then. He was happy to be with Brienne here, at the end. Didn’t he tell Bronn something about it, dying in the arms of the woman he loved? 

“Our homes are far from here, Brienne,” he’d said, didn’t want to think about the warmth of Casterly Rock during the summer. He frowned. 

“Winterfell then, I don’t care. You’re going to live, we are going to bloody live,” she hissed, shaking him, hoping to rouse him a bit more. “We’ll return to Winterfell….be married under the old Weirwood in the snow…” There was something wistful in her words, as if she was telling herself the story now, something to think about as you froze to death. 

“Married, eh?” Jaime smiled, he remembers that well. It had made him happy. “We’re going to get married?”  
“We are,” Brienne went on, blinking slowly, and Jaime did see tears there, ones that would likely freeze on her cheeks. “You’ll walk back down to Long Lake with me, and Jon will have killed the Night King. We’ll go back to Winterfell and be married.” 

“Walking seems...a bit more than I can do, just--” 

“You have to live, if you’re going to marry me, Kingslayer.” 

And she was right, for the most part. 

There was the war in the south, between the coming back to Winterfell and the marrying. There was King’s Landing, the executions. 

So it was postponed for quite a long time, this marriage, but neither of them forgot it. There was grief and terror, and miles and miles, but they were there together, and they knew now, how they felt about one another. 

Brienne drug him from the crowd after Cersei’s execution, and if it weren’t for Drogon’s triumphant roaring, they all would have heard his sobbing. She stood there through his silent grief as they rode back to Winterfell, which he knew was hard for her, and eventually something he would try and rectify over the years. 

And now he was looking out at another dawn he never thought he’d see. A married man, it almost makes him smile to think of, mostly because of what he thought his father might say. Brienne was a noblewoman of a suitable age, perhaps not suitable temperament, but it’s more than Tywin could have ever hoped for, so Jaime was sure they had his blessing. 

His other ghosts, he couldn’t say the same for. 

“Sister,” he half whispers, though the sound gets carried away on the breeze. “Can you look up from the Seven hells and see this?” 

A pair of nearby shutters flap in the wind, clapping against stone, and the gust whistles past the open windows, ruffles Jaime’s hair. 

Smiling he closes his eyes. “Hear me. I'm alive, and I am happy.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve left out a lot of things and people but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
